


Unreliable Narrator

by Salome



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, Mental Instability, Multiple Personalities, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 13:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13976586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salome/pseuds/Salome
Summary: Cassandra is furious to find Varric was lying to her about Hawke. A conversation at the bar helps her see that the things are more complicated than she assumed. Everyone has something to hide.





	Unreliable Narrator

I’m going to kill Varric, Cassandra mutters under her breath. She and the Inquisitor are through the third round of drinks, but she is still seething.

Why couldn’t he summon him earlier? We really could have used Hawke’s help.

It’s notable that the man himself keeps to his room and doesn’t dare to show up at the tavern’s main hall.

“I am sorry for intruding,” says their new ally, “Carver is a strong fighter and a trustworthy friend, but imposing all this on him will be too much, I’m afraid.”

Carver? Who’s talking about Carver?!  Cassandra bursts out. I meant his older brother all this time!

“Did you take him for Garrett Hawke?” - The Grey Warden is laughing. - “Anyone can grow a beard, you know. And even without Hawke, the things have worked out in the best possible manner for you, anyway. If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you a story.”

Cassandra is speechless with indignation – worked out, my ass. But the Inquisitor just nods, inviting the man to go on.

“When Duncan was killed,” Alistair pauses for quite a while and continues after a big swill of his drink. “When Duncan was killed, I must have gone slightly mad – with grief, fear, the unbearable burden of responsibility. Before that, I hadn’t even been trusted with choosing what I wanted for dinner, and then suddenly the fate of whole Ferelden, perhaps the whole world was upon my shoulders.”

Cabot slides a fresh mug towards him in exchange for the one he’s just finished.

“I could have really used a friend to share that burden with. Every night, while falling asleep, I told myself a story that there were two of us, that we the last Grey Wardens trusted each other with our lives, that we shared all our hopes and dreams with each other, that we were destined to win in the end.”

Cassandra nods carefully, suppresses a sudden bout of queasiness, waits for the walls to stop dancing.

“Or better yet a girlfriend. I had never had a girlfriend by then, but I desperately wished for one.”

Cassandra can relate to that: the need is indeed pressing when you are that young but have spent all your youth in the barracks without much chance to find a sweetheart among your peers.

“Gradually her image became clearer and clearer – a small wonder, since I was talking to her all my waking hours. The only problem was, it took me some time to decide whether she would be a mysterious dwarf from Orzammar, or an elf with a whole list of offences caused by humans and a wish for revenge, or a proud heiress of a teirn. You see, there was a time when I devoted quite a lot of my imagination to daydreaming about what would happen if I was not raised by Eamon, who could put a person away into storage for ten years like a thing, but by generous and just Bryce Cousland.”

Cassandra doesn’t know much about Fereldan elves, but she has of course heard about the assassination of the Couslands, though she is not sure the man has the right to take condolences for them.

“Anyway, I kept telling about her to my companions – the actual ones – until they almost started to believe in her existence along with myself. And the outsiders never really bothered to find out who was a Grey Warden and who wasn’t marked by the Blight in the group of rebels that Loghain had ordered to arrest.”

Yup, says the Inquisitor, sounds familiar. When confronted, be all silent and mysterious, and the people will explain everything themselves, better than you ever could.

“I never would have made it if it wasn’t for her support till the very end.”

But I’ve been to the Hero of Ferelden’s tomb, protests Cassandra.

“Of course you have,” says he. “The empty tomb; because the fight was so violent, afterwards there wasn’t a single piece of her body left to collect. You see, I had to come up with an explanation why the Archdemon was dead, but I was still alive.”

Cassandra sees that his brow is furrowed, and his eyes, fixed on some point behind her shoulder, are glistening suspiciously.

I’m very…

Actually, she is on the verge of tears herself.

Alistair gently hugs Cassandra’s shoulders and pats her back, allowing her to weep out her disappointment, weep out her sadness and yearning for Justinia, for Galyan, the loved ones who were real, unlike this weirdo’s imaginary sweetheart, but then they died.

His jacket smells of leather and sword polish, and when Cassandra finally sits back, there is a wet spot on his chest where her face was stuck to it.

She’s lucky there are so few people in the tavern, but on the other hand it’s hard to surprise anyone with drunken tears here.

“Talking about imaginary friends, I must mention that we all were in need of something,” says Varric sagely.

Wait, when did he join them? Did the Inquisitor invite him?

“The Guard Captain needed someone to deal with clear criminals without waiting for the magistrate’s order which – knowing Kirkwall’s corruption - might not be coming at all. The runaway slave needed support, and cover, and a helping hand when he was out hunting slavers. The thief and pirate, protection from the Qunari. The representative of the Merchants’ Guild, an excuse to help people without a material gain. The daisy girl who got stuck in a pact with a demon, someone to keep her from going mad. The twins, someone older and responsible to be head of the family. The apostate mage, freedom for all who shared the gift of magic. The prince without a princedom, revenge or forgiveness.”

He looks over the listeners triumphantly, and finishes. “And the city needed hope.”

Pray tell us more, says the Inquisitor – sincerely or mockingly, Cassandra can’t tell.

“Anders was the first, of course. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘It was… um, Hawke.’ Bethany, who still had a soft spot for him at the time, instead of passing the buck further along, confirmed, ‘Yes, it was my older sister, Marian Hawke, and she’s not to be trifled with.’”

It took Cassandra quite a while to even find out if the legendary Champion of Kirkwall was male or female, and now it turns out all that effort was wasted?

“And so it would go on. Sometimes Garrett took Marian’s place, but who cares. Some of the stories were completely made up by yours truly and sent out into the world, but most were just exaggerated a bit. There was no self-deception on my part, only cold-hearted calculation. Yet it looks to have worked just fine.”

Could not you tell me from the start? asks Cassandra gingerly.

“What could I do if all the innuendo seemed to pass over your head?” says the cheeky dwarf. “To explain even more clearly was to name those who actually did it, and I wasn’t sure they’d appreciate it. The Chantry explosion was the only one everyone said unanimously – with one exception, of course – that Hawke didn’t do it.”

My favorite one is about the Arishok, the Inquisitor pipes in. Does that mean Isabela fought him herself?

“Indeed it does,” says Varric. “You should have seen them play tag all over the Viscount’s throne room!”

One story follows another, Alistair and the Inquisitor shower the dwarf with questions, and suddenly Cassandra feels incredibly bored.

So, if I understand correctly, today I won’t be allowed to beat Varric up, she muses aloud, then turns to face the Grey Warden. How about some fighting practice, then?

Turns out, he is happy to oblige. Half an hour later Cassandra’s muscles are sore, her left shoulder is aching, her nose and forehead above the brows are itchy where the edge of the helmet dug into the skin when she got a faceful of shield. Alistair is rubbing his bruised side and shaking her hand. Not bad at all, she thinks, he ranks among the best – the group which includes people like Cullen or the Bull, but not, say, Blackwall, but Cassandra has lost hope to explain the basics of her rating system to the Inquisitor. She should invite him to spar again, soon.

Shall we go? says the Inquisitor. We would do good to prepare for tomorrow's war council. Adamant Fortress isn’t going to storm itself, you know.

This is of course true, but Cassandra’s first reaction is annoyance she is unable to contain. She punches the nearest straw dummy with her left fist so hard that it turns around on its leg. Cassandra’s hand, despite being covered with an armor glove, spouts a flash of green light.

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so if this feels weird, I'm awfully sorry. (Excluding the non-standard punctuation - that was quite intentional.)
> 
> This fic was partially inspired by Chuck Palahniuk's "Fight Club" - not listed in the tags to avoid spoilers.


End file.
